Mycroft
by Just Miki
Summary: The moments in Sherlocks life that left Mycroft thrown for a loop. The moments in time that define not only a relationship but a person.


In Sherlock's defense Mycroft had never been around much through-out Sherlocks adolescence. In fact he was barley aware he had a brother. It was a topic filed into the back of his brain to be pulled out at the rare family dinner or an off handed comment from his Mummy. To Mycroft, the eleven year gap was a very reasonable reason to continue his life regardless of an infant.

By age sixteen Mycroft had made a name from himself with the higher-ups and already had dealings with the British Government. He was subtly ambitious and the contacts he had made where no joke. Mother would occasionally remark about how brilliant Sherlock was and gently hint that maybe Sherlock could be involved in Mycroft's life. By this point, however, Mycroft was rarely home and the hints went un-heeded.

Of course very few could appreciate the position Mycroft was making for himself. One mistake and he would be dismissed as a child and he would have to begin again. The stress was un-imaginable and Mycroft rose with a serious amusement to meet the occasion. In a way it was merely satisfying. In other ways it was _stimulating._ It had the flair of drama that Mycroft adored.

Therefore his first real confrontation with his brother was akin to a punch to the gut. It took all the air out of his lungs and it seemed to make the reality that was Sherlock Holmes a startlingly clear one. It was when Sherlock was seven years of age. Mycroft, being eighteen now, only came home as often as needed to keep Mummy content. The vanishing of their father upped the visits and that was when his Mother's hints turned into outright begging.

"Mycroft love, this whole thing with 'that man' has left me worried about Sherlocks state of mind." Even when Mycroft was very young Mummy had referred to his father as 'that man.' From what Mycroft gathered, Sherlock was very outspoken but not remotely close to anyone, even their father. Although at seven Mycroft supposed the disappearance of a parental figure would be rattling. Mycroft hardly wanted a child sobbing all over him.

He hadn't given much thought to his brother over the years beyond keeping tabs on the basics. Age, appearance, birth date. He had always thought of Sherlock as his Mothers project and would only briefly give thought to the person his sibling might become. He once took a small moment to fancy that perhaps his brother would grow up to want to work side by side with Mycroft. When Mummy had mentioned that Sherlock thought dinner parties with diplomats was the worst thing Sherlock ever had to endure, Mycroft had let the idea die and gave no more thought to it.

"The fact that now he was going to have to face a child that was really a stranger was irritating. The gleam in Mummy's eye that showed the vast intelligence and sharp insistence was even _more_ irritating. But if anything, Mycroft was dutiful. He would handle the situation with this younger sibling of his. Smooth things over and leave peace for Mummy.

"Be sure to find out what you can on Sherlock's thoughts on 'that man.' Mummy said seriously. The aura she often gave off that implied she knew far more than one could imagine made Mycroft wary. Nonetheless he rose and kissed his Mother on the cheek and then inquired a maid as to the whereabouts of this sibling.

Directed to the south wing's music room Mycroft walked with a brisk pace, mentally working through what needed to be said. It occurred to him now that Sherlock might, in all realities, have no idea who Mycroft was. _That_ thought made Mycroft miss a step. Knowing he wanted little to do with his sibling was one thing. Knowing that as an older brother he was literally nonexistent to a younger sibling was a little surprising in context. Mycroft brushed it off.

The large doors and small panel that identified a room tucked in the corner of the wing as The Music Room, had Mycroft rapping with his knuckles on the door firmly. The young diplomat stood erect and serious, waiting to hear a reply. When none was forth coming Mycroft decided that his introduction to Sherlock would be a surprise and he opened the door, mentally picking out what he would say in order to define their relationship as siblings. The bonds would be forged now and it was important they understand each other.

The moment he walked into the supposed music room Mycroft was thrown off his game. Where he vaguely remembered a light cheerful room with a grand piano and wide windows now stood what looked like a badly propped horror room in a haunted house. The windows had been blocked from sunlight and florescent bulbs gave everything a shadowed hue. Microscopes and books littered the room. Tables had been set up and various chemical supplies including poisons rested randomly.

"You're a disturbance, leave." If it had been the voice of a man, Mycroft might have concluded that this room was being loaned out. The words where in fact spoken by the soft high tones of a child. Albeit a very serious and flat sounding child. "Sherlock?" Mycroft straightened his pose, his gaze sweeping the room and cataloguing the papers and books that filled the room. There was not one childish thing in the area. Including a child.

"Sherlock, I've come to have a chat with you. I am-" The voice was dismissive. "I know who you are Mycroft Holmes. I have no interest in speaking of 'that man' as Mummy had insisted you attempt." Sherlocks usage of words was light heartening. Perhaps this child had more to offer than Mycroft had assumed. After all Mycroft had been discussing world issues and politics at his age.

"Mummy told you I was coming." It wasn't a question. "No of course not. It was not hard to reason that was why you are here. Now get out. You're disturbing my process." By this time Mycroft had spotted a bare foot peeking out from under a table on the far side of the vast room. Stepping over vile's and bottles Mycroft headed for that small foot and the child he assumed was attached to it.

Sherlocks lack of manners was somewhat alarming. As a well off family the Holmes and everyone around them was constantly under obligation to present themselves well. "I see you've found this room in disrepair." Mycroft attempted, standing near the foot. "This room is the way I want it, now kindly remove yourself from it.

Mycroft wondered what on earth his brother could have been doing in here. Resigning himself to dealing with a child Mycroft crouched down and made eye contact. It took him six seconds to realize that the eyes he where looking at where not looking back. In face the white film of death that covered the eyes was almost as disturbing as the fact that the eyes were a set in the decapitated rotting head of a corpse.

Mycroft stared for a moment longer to assure himself of what he was seeing before standing up calmly. He watched impassionedly as a small figure climbed out from under the table and rose to stare at Mycroft with irritated fury. "Sherlock." Mycroft greeted. "Indeed." The boys tone was flat and the disturbing lack of emotion that was reflected in the ice blue eyes showed that Mycroft was certainly _not_ dealing with a hysterical child.

"When did you find that head?" Mycroft spoke softly, his mind working through any hints he might have as to who the head might belong. "When I took it from the body." That alone sent an unidentified feeling down Mycroft's spine. "Right, well perhaps we could talk in another room." Already Mycroft was twitching to get to a phone. The police would have to be informed; this would not appear well on his image. And what would Mummy think?

"I wont let you call the police." It was like the boy knew what Mycroft was thinking. "You coming here is irritating and _you_ are boring. Go away." With that the child calmly reached under the table and plucked up the rotting head. He was gone before Mycroft had thought of a strategy.

Right, his brother would be handled but first things first, inform Mummy. Mycroft walked swiftly back to the parlor where his Mother was waiting patiently. "Mummy." Mycroft greeted. His eyes falling on the phone that sat on the table next to her. Making up his mind, Mycroft was already trying to work though a mental list of his contacts to see if he could keep the news of a bodiless corpse out of the press.

"His mother's small hand caught his wrist as he reached for the phone. "I'll explain in a moment." Mycroft said seriously. "I supposed you saw the head that Sherlock had been carting around." His mother sounded firm and tiered at the same time. Mycroft looked up, allowing himself to be startled for the first time. The look on his mothers face told it all.

This is not an unusual occurrence.

Sherlock's behavior was not unusual

Sherlock is _not _like other seven year olds.

Mummy had not wanted Mycroft to comfort Sherlock about their father. She had wanted Mycroft to see that Sherlock in the kind of person who probably cared less about the man. Mycroft set down the phone. "Tell me everything." He said seriously. A person like _that_ in his own household could not be dismissed. Walking around with dead rotting humans just screamed serial killer.

For years now Mummy had been throwing in little tidbits about Sherlock. How he upset the maids or unnerved his teachers. Now Mummy had gotten Mycroft's attention.

She told him everything.

How at three Sherlock was so fed up with people talking down to him he refused to talk for that year of his life.

How when he was four the maids had found him unconscious in his room after trying to make a bomb.

At five how Mummy had to personally fetch Sherlock from crime scenes he would break into.

How he had already stolen cold case files and was working on solving them at any given moment.

How his classmates where afraid of him. Even when he tried to make friends by explaining about something or other that fascinated him.

How sometimes when a project was not going well he would come to Mummy and curl up in her lap and talk at her for hours and hours about everything he was thinking.

How he wanted so badly for someone to actually _listen _when he was talking that he decided he would pick a friend and he had gone to the cemetery and picked himself a person. At first he had talked to the headstone. Then yesterday he had brought back the head. Mummy was already arranging to have the flesh removed and returned a pristine skull. How she hoped that wouldn't upset Sherlock as this was the first sign of any attachment to _anything_ that Sherlock had ever shown.

How he wanted so badly for every thing he would work for and discover in his brilliant mind to be acknowledged.

How so very few could even think of him as anything but a freak after one encounter.

How he wanted a friend.

How he looked down the the pathetic groups of mindless idiots that got in his way.

How his genius needed to be noticed.

How he was a brilliant adult and a cold rational person.

How he was very much a child.

Mycroft was ashamed that this had gone on without him noticing in his own home. How he had dismissed the odd comment from party guests about his brother. With the right guidance early on Sherlock could have been astounding. Now he was stubborn, serious and childish. Mycroft doubted the boy would do anything for anyone other than himself and perhaps Mummy.

When Mummy had mentioned that Sherlock decided he was going to be sociopath was when Mycroft dutifully decided that as a brother something had to be done. Which no doubt was what Mummy was after. Sherlock was a priority one.

OoOoOoOoOoOoO

Years passed and Mycroft learned more about his brother than perhaps anyone in the world. And it was completely my ascendant. After Mycroft's first real encounter with Sherlock Mycroft had devised as many ways as he thought necessary to get across to his brother. The master plan comprised of identifying with Sherlocks intellect. To get Sherlock to see Mycroft as an equal. Then Mycroft would try to guide the boy to something more stable. Make him a proper…well, person.

Mycroft took it upon himself to return the newly de-fleshed skull to Sherlock who took the skull and gave Mycroft the dressing down of his life. Never before had Mycroft felt so…fat. He'd been a chubby boy but strove to get away from that. As if to punish Mycroft for having his skull taken away to be cleaned Sherlock had decided that Mycroft was the enemy and he set out to make sure Mycroft knew it. No doubt driven by what he saw as his Mothers meddling.

"A dark stain on your tie, no doubt from the pudding you snatched before supper. Your shoes are muddy, probably from going to meet that important man personally. I'm surprised that you're hands and knees aren't muddy. Are you sure you didn't eat the pudding to get rid of the taste of rubber?" Sherlocks comment was snide as the boy gripped his skull closer.

Mycroft took the comment in stride, he was ever so _slightly _impressed that the seven year old had managed to imply that Mycroft was such a suck up he would get on hands and knees to lick the shoes of the higher-ups. Mostly he was disgusted and worried. If this was how Sherlock treated family he would never make a place for himself. A prodigy he may be, but nobody would listen to him if they where feeling scorned.

Sherlock already seemed to be board, if there was one thing that Mycroft had noticed it was that when his brain stopped receiving stimulus the lack of interesting things seemed to be almost _painful_ to Sherlock. When genius came to Sherlock naturally he almost needed someone smarter to drive him on.

"And you've put on almost a stone." Sherlock said it as if just stating a fact but his eyes showing he was being mean.

Irritated by the boy's lack of common sense Mycroft opened his mouth to knock Sherlock down a peg. "And what about you? Rumpled clothes that judging by the loose thread hanging from your sleeves I'd say you've been wearing them at least three days. Sallow yellow parlor to the skin, you eat far less then is healthy and when you do eat its often sweets that would account for the slightly dilated pupils." Mycroft's tone was full of disgusted but Sherlock whipped his head around so fast Mycroft would believe him claiming whiplash.

Mycroft usually kept his observations quiet until whatever he had learned about the person was useful to him. Sherlock using his observations as if they where the most obvious thing in the world made Mycroft think he had a serious lack of control. The gleam in Sherlock's ice blues eyes told a different story. For the first time Sherlock was looking at Mycroft with _interest_

"Those things where obvious. Is that all you got?" Sherlocks voice was almost sharp with anticipation. Mycroft stared at him blankly for a moment before the realization gave him a twisted desire to laugh_. _Instead of impressing Sherlock or identifying with him Sherlock thought he had just found himself a wonderful new rival.

The rival that Sherlock needed just to stay steady, Mycroft realized with a sinking heart. Sherlock didn't understand how to have a friend so he had just latch onto the closest thing he could and made Mycroft his Arch-nemesis. The grin Sherlock threw his way before giggling madly and taking off down the hall was almost worth it.

Already Mycroft's brain was scrambling to work this situation into a clear picture of what needed to be done and how this would be handled.

He had no doubt that his baby brother would be like nothing the world had ever seen.

And Mycroft would probably have to have a hand in Sherlocks life for the rest of forever.

Even if just for Mummy's sake.

OoOoOoOoOoOoO

"They wont listen!" Sherlocks voice bellowed. The fury that swelling in every step of his pacing was immeasurable. Twelve years of age and his very aura belayed a prisoner's madness as they stalked their cell. Mycroft straightened his posture, as if acting civilized would somehow make up for his brothers instability.

"And what if they don't ever listen?" Mummy's voice was soft and careful. "I'll make them listen!" Sherlock roared! This episode was reminiscent of the meltdown Sherlock had last week over tobacco ash. "It could have been an ascendant." Mummy was easily poking the beast. Mycroft rolled his eyes. "Do calm down Sherlock."

"_It was murder!"_ Sherlock hissed. Mycroft said nothing, he and Sherlock both knew the facts. They both knew there wasn't enough evidence to make Carl Powers death get jotted down as anything more than an ascendant. "Do calm down." His brothers antics where frustrating, Sherlock needed to know when to accept defeat with grace.

Of course Sherlock didn't do anything with grace. Whenever Mycroft tried to keep him entertained with a case or puzzle Sherlock would only glance at them with his own discretion. Never wanting Mycroft to gain the upper foot. Now that he wanted even the Scotland Yard to do as he said Sherlock was finding that being stubborn wasn't helpful but he was too stubborn to change his ways. Or to even think their might be a problem in his mannerisms.

At fourteen Sherlock had grown into that kind of person that one could search the world over and not find someone similar. Mycroft was the closest to Sherlocks brand. And well enough, he supposed. After all he did enjoy beating Sherlock at things. The undeclared rivalry flourished and between Mycroft being both elder brother and arch nemesis, Sherlock never failed to drive Mycroft mad.

Mycroft wondered if he and the rest of society would forever be inflicted by Sherlocks patterns and ways. In some ways he wouldn't have Sherlock any other way. Mostly however, and even if just for Sherlocks sake, he wished his brother would gain some self control.

And not eating because he found it mundane did _not_ count as control.

OoOoOoOoOoOoOo

The day the agent in charge of monitoring Sherlock's cameras sent him a message stating-

:** New man in flat. Seems to be prospective flat mate. Taken to crime scene with subject. File pending:**

**-**Mycroft's heart sunk. Sherlock had been born scorning ordinary people, unable to comprehend their complacency in their markedly pointless lives. The only other time Mycroft had seen Sherlock suffer someone company was when he had too, if it was Mummy, or if the person was interesting. And the last person Sherlock had found interesting was a schitsophrenic that killed people and than ate the bodies. Sherlock used to visit him in the loony bin and have long talks with him.

Someone who Sherlock would share a flat with? More than that, take on a case with someone he would let near his precious cases? Mycroft's heart almost stuttered in panic. Sherlocks quest to quench his boredom was going to get the idiot killed. Mycroft knew that Sherlock had considered a Flat mate for sometime and if he had found someone acceptable that would mean it was someone who could do serious harm.

Mycroft's computer binged familiarly, his hand carefully reached for the mouse and clicked on the file that had just been sent to his comp. The file of the new prospective flat mate.

**John Hamish Watson: Age 33**

The file opened filled with pointless and oh so vital information.

Born in west London.

Arrested at thirteen for assaulting his father. Charges dropped. Father charged with abuse.

Graduated at eighteen.

One year of traveling

Eight years medical school

Four years army medic.

Wounded in battle

Returned to London three months ago.

What an impressive and completely normal life. What. The. Hell. There was no way anybody, even a doctor; this ordinary was worth bothering with. He hadn't even really ever been arrested! He won a metal of God and Queen Duty for Gods sake! There where a few moments of his military records that had him getting an official warning or marshal but all the reasons he had gotten them where either reasonable or freaking brave!

If there was one thing to this man it seemed to be bravery and loyalty. In spades. He'd gotten shot defending his squadron when the enemy tried to attack their medical base. He was a good person, far as Mycroft could gather. But a good person sure as hell would not interest Sherlock. Physical attraction maybe? Mycroft scrolled down to where various photos had been loaded.

…He even looked ordinary! More than that he looked absolutely kind! Like a caring pediatrician, not a bloody war vet and not someone Sherlock would like. Mycroft leaned back in his chair, crossing his fingers thoughtfully. This man, this John Watson, there must be something, something he had managed to hide from the records. Something that would intrigue Sherlock. Something bad.

Best to let this Watson fellow know what he's up against, Mycroft glanced up to his ever texting secretary. She looked up at him and nodded the arrangements where in place. He would have to meet this man face to face. Or gun to face depending on how things went.

OOoOoOoOoOoOoO

As it turns out John Watson was so perfectly ordinary that every _out_ of ordinary thing he did seemed masterful. Mycroft doubted that Sherlock had noticed. Mycroft certainly couldn't believe that the exact kind of person Sherlock had always needed. The kind of person that Mycroft would have attempted to be if Sherlock had not declared them enemies so long ago.

John was impressed by Sherlock but stern enough to not let him get away with everything. He liked ordinary and related well with ordinary people but he had that thrill for the chase. That battleground hunt that also drove Sherlock. He had army issued orderliness to himself and cared little for meaningless knick-knacks but he never was bothered by the odd things Sherlock hoarded. Patiently assuming they had a purpose. He wasn't catering to Sherlock by any stretch but he was…very well suited to Mycroft's brother.

The loyalty that nobody had ever shown Sherlock was present in everything John did. The comradeship that was borderline assistant worked well for them both. It was almost mind blowing how this pair had a _genuine_ partnership. Something somewhat rare even to ordinary people. Mycroft privately adored John. Not just for Sherlocks sake, although it was for Sherlocks sake that Mycroft kept his bounds…mostly. When Sherlock ignored his tests Mycroft found himself almost eager to badger John.

Mostly he was very relieved that John's presence seemed to balance the precarious scales that Sherlock had tested his whole life. A small unmentioned part of him wished he had found John first. After all Sherlock wasn't the only genius that needed a balance.

But he owed John everything on Sherlocks behalf, because most importantly, beyond the odd nagging for Sherlocks own good, John Watson did not try to change who Sherlock was. That was the kind of person everybody needed.

**Authors Note:** **Just a peek into Mycroft's view. He was always the more socially balanced of the two and though both brothers are genius Mycroft's take on things always interested me.**

**Next chapter I planned to switch to Johns point of view. Toss in some plot; however on the off chance that this is no good (after all I'm sure most people aren't all that interested in drabbles from Mycroft's view) I wont bother. :D Cheers**

**Reviews are very much loved. IF you can take the time I always look forward to them.**


End file.
